


Getaway

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-22
Updated: 2011-05-22
Packaged: 2017-10-19 17:22:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Sam's head, he's a hooker, Dean's a male model, and Dean always saves him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Getaway

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for 6.22
> 
> The noncon is not between Sam and Dean.
> 
> Sort of a coda to 6.22. Darker than the summary might suggest, more cheerful than the warnings might portend.

It’s kind of weird, Sam thinks sometimes, that he only has two clients.

In his head, he calls the shorter one the CEO. Has no idea who he is, what he does, but he always wears power suits, dull blues and grays over crisp white shirts, and his eyes are hard and calm and utterly confident. He never bothers to take Sam further than round the corner into the narrow alley. Sam’s never seen him shed his expensive clothes. He just pulls down his fly and pushes Sam down, so hard the gravelly asphalt cuts into his knees. The CEO is surprisingly strong.

He fucks Sam’s mouth and there are tears stinging Sam’s eyes and he’s gagging, can’t breathe, but the CEO just grips his hair tighter, twists it around his fingers till Sam can feel the strands begin to give and tear from his scalp. The CEO’s cock is bruising the roof of Sam’s mouth, the back of his throat, his metal watchband is digging into Sam’s cheek, and all the while he’s whispering, a soft, vicious litany, “worthless, weak, monster, evil, treacherous brother, cursed son.” He never raises his voice, never moans or grunts or shouts when he comes, choking Sam with salt and sulfur and a coppery taste of blood. He tucks himself fastidiously back in, zips up, and tilts Sam’s face towards him for a cold glance before he slaps him, a single, stinging blow, and then shoves him sprawling backwards on the filthy ground. As he turns away Sam can see him brushing off the strands of Sam’s hair that are still caught in his fingers.

The other one frightens Sam.

Sam calls him the playboy, trying for contempt, but it doesn’t help, doesn’t make him less afraid. The playboy wears a white suit and a fucking rose in his buttonhole and he should look absurd but he doesn’t. He’s tall, like, really tall, six four or something, and his face is familiar, though Sam doesn’t know where he’s seen it. Maybe he’s like a celebrity or something, some spoiled rich guy who should be in prison.

He has money, all right. He always takes Sam back to his place. It’s a penthouse and it’s gorgeous, breathtaking views, cityscapes of little lit windows like fires. It’s always too cold, though, and the maid’s eyes are frightened when she opens the door. There are candles and wine, and Sam drinks glass after glass, hoping things will blur.

They never do.

The Playboy likes to undress Sam slowly, sliding buttons out of buttonholes with a little smile of concentration. He takes his time with prep, too, thorough and almost gentle. His hands are cold as well. When he’s ready he leans down and whispers in Sam’s ear.

“Say yes,” he says, and Sam always does.

“You know you’re still mine,” the playboy says.

Then he drives into Sam’s body and Sam’s falling.

  
So it’s a bit of a surprise when the third guy shows up. Sam hears the engine first. The car is gleaming black, a classic Impala. And then there’s the driver.

He looks like a male model or something. Even in the half-light of the corner where Sam waits against the bars Sam can see his cheekbones, the glint of green in his eyes, the shape of his mouth. He’s wearing a distressed leather jacket, some necklace thing on a cord gleaming dully against his grey henley.

“Get in,” he says.

Sam hesitates, but it’s not like something will happen to him. Everything has already happened to him. He gets into the car.

Sam’s wondering if the guy will take him back to some sleazy motel or just have Sam blow him in the car, or if he’ll haul him out and bend him back over the hood and fuck him. But male model guy starts the ignition without a word and takes off in a squeal of tires like a getaway car, but he’s grinning like a victor, not looking over his shoulder like a fugitive.

Sam sits in shotgun and male model guy drives and drives. They’re out of the city, two-lane highway, dark trees, no other cars. The guy looks over at him and fucking _winks_ , pushes a tape into the tape deck and music blasts out, top volume. It’s Metallica, “Nothing Else Matters.” Sam’s heart is suddenly pounding against his ribs.

“Stop,” he says.

Male model guy pulls over at the side of the road and looks at Sam, eyebrows raised, cocky and quizzical, mouth turning up at one corner.

Sam wants to say, “Dean, Dean,” but he can’t, because his mouth is crushed against Dean’s, his hand reaching round Dean’s back and clutching at his jacket. He says it anyway, against Dean’s lips, and it comes out as a ridiculous slurred mumble. Dean laughs. He cups his hand around Sam’s face, thumb pushing into the hair behind Sam’s ear.

“Hey, Sammy,” he says.  


*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

  
“Hey, Sammy?”

It’s Dean’s voice. Sam blinks and straightens. His neck is stiff from leaning against the window, and, gross, he’s drooled on the glass. Dean is standing by the car. Sam can see a Dunkin Donuts sign behind him. Sam rolls the window down farther and Dean hands him a cup and a waxy donut bag.

“Nightmare?” says Dean. His voice is casual, his eyes concerned. He’s asked that pretty much every time Sam’s woken up since the Wall fell. Maybe Sam ought to be annoyed.

Sam takes a first sip of his coffee. It’s hot and strong and Dean put cream in it.

“No,” he says, “Not really,” and he smiles at Dean.


End file.
